


Storm

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: On a long, hot summer night there's more than one storm surrounding Boyd and Grace.





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missduncan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missduncan/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to missDuncan - sorry it's a few days late. :) xx  
> Thanks to Joodiff for the beta.

**Storm**

* * *

It’s unbearably humid. One of those disgustingly hot and uncomfortable British summery nights where no one really sleeps and tempers have a tendency to fray faster than a cat fleeing a boisterous canine. That those tempers haven’t – in this particular cottage – erupted yet, is either something of a minor miracle, or, perhaps, a sign that after years of bickering, scrapping and outright fighting, the bond between the two occupants has settled into something so deep, so close that petty squabbles are now irrelevant, insignificant.

The gloomy darkness of the elegant, comfortable room brightened by only by moonlight and half a dozen tall, slender white candles, flickers with the fast burn of brilliant white lightening. Stood at the wide, open window, leaning out as far as she can to breathe in the scent of the rain that is lashing down with abandon, Grace’s profile is illuminated – edged, for just a second or two, in an eerie, flattering silhouette. From his position sprawled out atop the wide, deep luxury of the impossibly big bed, blankets kicked aside and skin bare to any hint of a breeze that might dare find its way into the room and sooth the burning heat, Boyd watches her, entranced.

“Come back to bed,” he urges, gripped with the sudden desire to explore and re-explore the soft skin of her collarbone, to run a line of tiny kisses along the nape of her neck and make her sigh and melt against him.

She turns slightly, eyes sliding slowly from the very tips of his toes all the way up to his face, lingering here and there, an evocative, suggestive smile building on her lips, across her entire face as she stares at him, their gazes locked in silent communication.

Thunder snarls nearby, angry clouds bashing their heads together as the storm moves closer and the rain lashes down harder.

“Five more minutes,” she murmurs, already turning away again. “I love a good storm.”

Lightening blazes again, filling the room with that strange, electric flare of light – it creeps and wraps around her, a tantalising shadow just beyond his reach, offering him an exquisite black and white image of her side profile. Forehead, eyes and nose; those lips he wants to claim with his own. Further down there’s her throat and shoulders, the swell of her breast beneath the loose fabric draped around her, the hem of which falls to mid-thigh, disguising the rest of her torso and hips, but emphasising instead the remainder of her legs. It's an arresting sight, one that does nothing to calm the growling edge of tension in him that the long and uncomfortable night is causing. Instead it only offers visions and images that chase and tumble through his mind. He wants to run his hands up those thighs, to feel the erotic sensation of them wrapped around him as he plunges into her.

The imagery and the sight of her, the scent of hot summer rain, metallic and dry, and the oppressive heat of the night press on him, combining together to form a rich net of desire that ensnares his mind, focusing his thoughts in a single, heated direction.

The way her body, her stillness as she rests her hands on the window ledge and watches intently out over the rolling hills of the world outside, is highlighted by the candles and the brilliant white streaks of mother nature’s fury has all of his attention and is holding it, griping it. It makes him roll from his position of relative, lazy comfort and sit up. His feet land on the thick pile of a large shag rug that spreads out over polished, elegant floorboards and he stands, silently padding up behind her. No longer content to watch, he wants, needs, to touch, to hold.

There's the barest hint of a cool breeze flowing into the room and, as he stops and lets his hands come to rest quite naturally on her waist, he feels the tiny scrap of relief it offers from the relentlessly sticky humidity of the night. It cools his skin, flows easily into his lungs, but it does nothing to calm the growing desire burning within him.

There’s no one outside in the dark, remote landscape to spot his nakedness, but he doesn’t care anyway. Pressing his face gently to her hair he breathes in the tangled scent of her shampoo, her natural aroma and the musky hint of sex, of _them_ , still clinging to her skin. It’s exquisite, her scent, and it goes straight to his head, and his groin.

“Come back to bed,” he repeats, voice a deep, husky purr.

Her laughter is soft and warm, and it sends shivers down his spine. He has no idea what she’s thinking. “So impatient, Peter…”

She’s a mystery and a tease, and God help him, he adores her.

“I love you,” he whispers, straight into her ear. He rocks his hips forward, traps his hardening cock between their bodies as he kisses her neck, sucks the lobe of her ear into his mouth, letting it slide slowly, wetly out from between his lips. “And I want you.”

It’s been so effortlessly easy to adapt to having her in his life like this, and to learn to tell her exactly that. And God, does it feel good to see the way she looks at him, the way she reacts to him, when he does.

Through the thin cotton of the dark grey shirt he was wearing just hours ago and that she simply plucked from the floor and slipped her arms into minutes ago when she strayed from the bed, Boyd can feel an altogether different type of heat from the oppressive humidity lurking in the air. The raw heat of her body beneath a tantalising smoothness that entices him to slide his fingers down, skin rasping softly against the material until his hand skims past the hem and slips instead over warm, living flesh. He moves slowly, exploring and hunting, fingers drifting over her hip, his thumb brushing lightly across her stomach while his other hand, far from idle, deftly searches for the single button she has bothered to fasten. She takes a tiny step back, edging closer to him and her movement causes the fabric to shift, falling slightly and exposing her bare shoulder beneath it.

It’s far too tempting to resist and, as he curls one strong arm securely around her, tugging her back from the window and closing any remaining hint of distance between them until she’s pressed more snugly to him, body firmly flush with his, he lowers his head and gently nuzzles her skin. Grace leans her head back, freely soliciting the brush of his lips against her neck as his other hand keeps moving, questing. Finally loosening that button, his fingers work their way greedily but gently beneath the fabric, his palm cupping her breast, thumb sliding slowly and purposefully across the nipple.

She turns her head, her lips meeting his is in a deep, heady kiss that’s as charged and passionate, as stormy as the night around them. Her hand reaches back behind her, palm skimming along the length of his thigh before gripping the heavy muscle firmly, trying to pull him closer, tighter against her. It’s an exercise in futility though, for the only barrier between them now is the dark grey material of the stolen shirt.

His mouth leaves hers, lips trailing instead along her neck again, teeth nipping lightly and eliciting a soft moan that is lost amongst the rattle of pouring rain as his other hand tugs the shirt aside before slipping lower, inch by agonisingly slow inch, fingers teasing and exploring, mapping flesh that is rippled with the evidence of the building chill the breeze carries.

“God, do I want you,” he repeats, voice a low, throaty rasp.

This time he can immediately see the effect his words have on her, feels it as, impatient, and hungry for the feel of his lips against hers, Grace breaks out of his hold and turns, reaching up to run the fingers of both hands into his already tousled hair, gripping tightly and pulling him down into a kiss that starts with an almost desperate ferocity, but slowly morphs into something slower and much more sensual. The furious clash of lips and tongues becomes a far softer exploration, the rising emotional intensity of the moment mingling with the sensation of skin against skin as his arms find their way beneath the shirt to curve around her, bringing them once again into the closest possible contact.

The kiss ends, leaving them both breathless as they stare at one another, silently sharing the quiet intimacy of the moment. Reaching out, Boyd runs a finger over the top button of the shirt she is still wearing, musing that it really is high time he did something about getting her out of it. Slowly, intentionally taking his time, he peels it off her shoulder, letting it succumb to the call of gravity and slither down her arms to fall away until it is nothing but a sea of cotton tangled at her feet.

He watches as Grace closes her eyes and lets her head fall back slightly, concentrating on the tactile feedback of his touch, his hand feather light as it follows the same path downwards as the fallen shirt. His fingers momentarily brush against hers before threading lightly between them, joining their hands and bringing hers to his lips, delicately kissing her knuckles. The inside of her wrist is soft, but she’s impossibly ticklish there and he knows it, exploiting her sensitivity with a devilish grin as he drags the soft bristle of his beard across her skin, eliciting as gasp as her eyes fly open and she tries to pull out of his grip. Grinning mischievously, Boyd refuses to let her, tightening his grip just enough to keep hold of her, but not enough to hurt her, and repeats the action.

“Peter…” she half gasps, half growls, torn by a mixture of need, greed and desperation, and fuck if the sound of his name falling from her lips in such a manner isn’t one of the sexiest things he’s ever heard…

His self-control is weakening, and he knows it. She’s too damn beautiful, too damn interesting, fascinating, captivating, enticing, and he’s a long, long way past head-over-heels in love with her. The breezes blows and the curtain that slipped from her hand when he stepped up behind her flutters around her, surrounds her in an air of mystery as thunder crashes again and lightning flashes, flickers with startling intensity and highlighting her once more, making her eyes seem to glitter as he gazes down and she gazes up.

For a moment his is transfixed, unable to move as the light show lasts, creating, building images in his mind, but then it dies away in another loud rumble that trails off into a muttering grumble and the spell breaks, lets him reach out and lift her, pivot, stride back to the bed. Grace licks her lips and eyes him with keen speculation as he sets her down, crawls over her, his body pressing her back into the mattress, and that look… it makes his decision for him in an instant.

He kisses her quickly, hotly, deeply, and then he pulls back just as quickly, listening to the frustrated, displeased grumble that slips from her lips as he leaves her, grins wickedly down at her. She reaches for him, but he pushes her hand away and instead begins instead an eager hunt down her body, starting with a trail of tiny kisses along her collarbone. Tongue swirling gently in the hollow at the base of her throat he takes satisfaction in the sharp intake of breath his ears pick up over the clatter of rain hitting the roof and the renewed clashing of tempers in the skies.

Fingers splayed, palm eager he explores the curve of her hip, trails up and over her waist, thumb brushing lightly over her stomach. Muscle tenses beneath his touch as his lips descend, finding her breast, eliciting a breathless gasp. His lips capture her nipple and suck, tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh and he grins against her in pure smugness as she hisses and arches beneath him, his name landing in the air in a choked moan.

It’s desperately erotic, that sound, and it goes straight to his groin, making his cock throb with need. He increases the pressure of his assault on her skin, and in an instant Grace’s hands are buried in his hair, clutching him tightly to her.

“Fuck,” she hisses, “Peter…”

His name again, almost lost in the clash of thunder as the storm still booms and rages. Nails dragging across her stomach, he makes complicated patterns across the pale, delicate skin, enjoys the way her breathing becomes heavier, more unsteady as his mouth drags across the fullness of her breast, tongue trailing along the rich curves as he moves to the other side, lavishing equal attention there.

Boyd can’t get enough of her, he really can’t. There’s nothing but overwhelming desire in his mind and the need to satisfy her, to make her feel good as he explores. His wandering hand finds her hip, the skin there thinner and easier to torment, the very edges of his nails gliding over the ridge of her pelvis with ghostly pressure. Grace squirms beneath him, pushing up against his body as her fingers dig into his shoulder and bicep. That tight, sweaty grip of hers, it sets off a blaze of fire inside him, makes him feel like a king.

She wants this every bit as much as he does, and that knowledge is incredibly powerful. Does things to him that make him want to pin her to the mattress and take her right there and then.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because the slow, sweet torment of exploration, of drawing it all out little by little is every bit as rewarding as that final peak of intense pleasure. It’s waiting for him – for them – that promise of writhing, blistering ecstasy, and that’s fine. He can wait.

In the here and now, she’s beautiful and perfect and incredible as she tugs on his arms insistently, her desire quite clear. He shifts his weight, redistributes his body to give her what she wants. Long, slow, deep kisses that blur his thoughts and leave him drunk on the taste of her, enraptured by the devilish agility of her tongue as it dances with his own. They have been good at this since the very beginning, and he revels in it, each and every time.

His questing hand has finally, finally found its way between her thighs and she’s so damn wet and ready for him that he groans into her mouth. Grace breaks away from him, draws in a deep, shuddering breath and as he hears himself growl in protest he sees the satisfied smirk in her eyes.

“You’re not the only one who wants, Peter,” she tells him, and her tone is so roughened by desire, by raw need that he feels himself twitch. Sees that smirk deepen as she feels it too where he’s pressed against her body.

“Touch me,” she urges, and he realises he’s stilled completely. “Go on,” she grins, utterly licentious, “I know you want to.”

It still amazes him sometimes, just how blunt and free, how mischievous she can be when she wants to be. And how much she _enjoys_ it. Even now, months and months down the line, she still startles him, still catches him off guard. Still has an incredibly predictable effect on his already very healthy libido.

Boyd kisses her again, partly to stop her from talking, to distract her before she decides tormenting him is a good thing, and partly because he just _has_ to. Even as he does, though, he’s setting up a deliberately maddening rhythm with his fingers, teasing her incessantly.

Grace breaks away to breathe again and swears eloquently at him, the breathlessness in her tone making it his turn to smirk in unashamed glee. “Fuck,” she hisses, and it’s then that he finally surrenders and pushes first one, and then two fingers inside her. He watches and feels, not just hears, her deep, shuddering moan, and it is incredibly satisfying. Excitement prickles down his spine at her reaction, the string of profanities escaping from her filling him with intense pride. He is doing this to her, _he_ is.

Boyd knows exactly what does it for her, how to drive her half-crazy with want and need as she writhes beneath him, the nails of one hand digging into his arm while the fingers of her other clutch the bed sheets in a desperate, unrelenting grip. He will have deep nail marks embedded in his skin later, he knows, and he doesn’t give a damn.

She’s so incredibly sexy, he thinks, as he slides his fingers deeper, curling and reaching, rubbing against exactly the right spot, while his thumb keeps up a practised, proficient external friction that always, always seems to work for her.

Gazing at her, drinking in the way her eyes are clenched shut, her head tilted back and pressing deep into the pillow, he grins in absolute, unashamed smugness. _Look at her_ , he thinks. _Look at what I can make her feel_. Her body is slick with a light sheen of sweat, her nipples standing up in hard points and he subsides down onto his side next to her, leans over her and kisses her exposed neck, biting softly enough that he won’t leave a mark, and hard enough to make her curse at him again. Smirking, he shifts once more, and palms one breast, squeezing gleefully even as he reaches for the other with his lips, capturing the nipple and sucking hard.

Grace screams, but the sound is lost in the roar of thunder that booms almost exactly overhead. The curtains billow in the window as a strong blast of the strengthening breeze sweeps through, and as the room flickers with the white heat of lightening Boyd watches as she becomes a black and white vision of surging hips and tensing muscle, her torso heaving with the effort of breathing as her heart races, his palm on her chest following the thundering beat beneath her ribs.

Colour returns to the world and as she stills, still gasping, he studies the way her skin is so beautifully flushed, the way she’s limp and boneless, sprawled as she is on the mattress. It makes his heart catch and swell, and he leans closer, cradles her gently against his body, envelopes her completely in his embrace because he knows she adores it, and then he kisses her delicately, whispers things in her ear that provoke the clumsy, ungainly arm that accidentally hits his hip as she struggles to wrap it around him. It amuses him greatly, that clumsiness, but also stokes his male pride, because _he_ is responsible for it. _He_ is the reason she’s incoherent and insensible right now. And fuck, does that feel good, too.

He’s still hard – incredibly so – but right at this moment holding her, watching her as she slowly makes her way back into the real world, is the most important thing to him.

Grace sighs softly, her eyes still closed, and against the skin of his neck he feels her mumble something entirely unintelligible and near inaudible. “You okay?” he asks, nuzzling her hair. She doesn’t reply, seemingly can only offer a tiny squeeze of his shoulder where her hand is resting against him. Boyd smiles and strokes her back, fingers playing lightly over the individual bones of her spine. She’s gaining weight, but slowly. Fit and healthy she may now be, but there are still a few lingering traces of how hard she had to fight, how much of her strength she used up in that long and agonising battle.

It doesn’t bother him, not anymore. She’s happy and healthy, and those are the most important things to him. She – they – are finally living as they want. Together. Without the shadows and the fear, the appointments and the waiting. So what if it’s taking her longer than he’d hoped to get completely back to where she used to be.

Pressure on his shoulder pulls him out of his thoughts; she’s squeezing the muscle slightly, stroking his arm. Boyd finds her eyes, very blue and fixed on him as she smiles, as she mouths two words at him. “Come here.”

The kiss seems endless, wandering lips that transition into the mischief of teeth and tongues and rapidly rising fire. Somehow, as they pull of it and gaze at one another, he’s not only thoroughly stupefied by lust, but also flat on his back as she leans down over him, grinning in a way that suggests she thinks she has the upper hand. He’s about to challenge her on that when she leans down quickly, nipping his neck whilst simultaneously rocking her hips against him. He chokes, and though it tugs at his masculine pride he can’t help it, as he involuntarily thrusts up against her.

Grace is laughing. Sitting up, firmly astride him, she is laughing, and her eyes are full of eager wickedness that leaves him swallowing and clutching at her hips. He wants her more than anything. Wants to be buried deep inside her where she is hot and slick and tight, but she’s not going to allow that, he already knows. Not yet, anyway.

He can fight her, but he won’t win. Not tonight. Grace is just as hedonistic as he is, and she enjoys it just as much. Maybe even more. After all, she seems to be able to hold out longer, to make him gasp and choke, and even sometimes beg beneath her. If she’s in the right mood, she can even drive him insane with need. Can test his patience beyond any and all limits. It is immeasurably frustrating, and incredibly rewarding.

Age, it seems, really is no barrier to having a _lot_ of fun.

And, he thinks, thank the higher powers for that.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, and Christ, is it fucking good. She doesn’t just go straight for an all-out assault on his cock, though she has got an expert grasp of him as she lazily strokes away. It’s her other hand, though, that’s plunging him straight into a dreamy, hazy world of pleasure and delight as she seeks out all the sensitive spots of skin and works them too, turning his entire body into a live wire. She calls his name, demands he open his eyes and look at her, holds his gaze with real fire in her own.

“How long are you going to torment me?” he grinds out, teeth clenching with the effort of not breaking beneath her.

Grace considers him, gazing down with complete confidence. Mischief radiates from her as she offers just the lightest brush of her thumb over the head of his cock. “I haven’t decided,” she shrugs, and there’s no way the exaggerated movement isn’t intended, because there’s nowhere else for his eyes to go in response but to her breasts. Boyd can’t stop himself, has to reach up and grasp, play, which is of course exactly what she wanted.

“Mmm,” she sighs, eyes closing briefly.

Any illusion he might had of her losing her grip on her control is shattered though when she changes her grip, curling her fingers around him with more purpose, squeezing and stoking, tormenting. The hand grasping her hip tightens, but there’s no room in his head for thoughts that he might mark her, bruise her. If he does, she won’t care. Now it’s his turn to swear, because not only is she incredibly proficient at what she’s doing, but she’s absolutely enjoying it as well. And that is perhaps the biggest turn on of it all.

Boyd thinks for a moment that she’s going to push him all the way, and that creates a shiver of anxiety up his spine because as good as what she’s doing to him is, there’s only one way he wants this to end, and that’s buried deep, deep inside her.

It’s like she knows what he’s thinking though, because, abruptly, the sliding, maddening friction of her hand is gone, and the eyes he didn’t know he had closed fly open. He’s greeted by an unholy smirk as she rises up, as she rubs the tip of his throbbing dick against her, allowing him to feel just how wet and ready for him she is. His hips strain towards her, lifting up off the bed as he tries to push into her, to claim her body as his own. Grace laughs and moves out of reach, shaking her head at him.

“Naughty boy,” she taunts, licking her lips in a manner that is so outrageously provocative he doesn’t think he can stand it.

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ naughty,” he demands, not sure how much more he can stand. “Jesus, woman. What the _hell_ are you trying to do to me?”

She crawls across him, kisses him hot and hard and open-mouthed. “What would you like me to do to you, Peter?” she purrs into his ear before nipping the shell, the lobe. “What is it that you want?”

“I want you,” he groans. “Now.”

“You’ve got me,” she laughs. “I’m right here.”

“Grace. I swear…” It’s meant as a warning, because he absolutely will grab her and pin her to the bed if he has to, if she keeps on pushing him, but to his annoyance it emerges as only a strained whisper as she swoops down and kisses his chest, flicks her tongue over first one nipple and then the other.

“You swear, do you?” she laughs, sitting up again just a quickly, settling back with infuriating deliberateness. That wicked hand is back, curling around him, stroking in that unbelievably experienced way of hers. He takes a deep breath, summons the last shreds of his patience, determined not to break under the strain of her torment. And then quite suddenly it all goes away, is replaced by an altogether different and most welcome kind of pleasure as she slowly and steadily lowers herself onto him.

It feels so fucking good, and he’s not at all shamed by the strangled groan that escapes from him. Particularly not when her eyes are closed, when her head has fallen back and she’s whimpering softly. Grace breathes, long and slow, and then she sits up and stares down at him, the intensity in her eyes mirroring exactly what he feels.

“Peter,” she murmurs, as she begins to roll her hips. “Oh, Peter…”

His stomach muscles burn with the effort, but he bends at the waist, rocking her backwards as he sits up and reaches for her, arms curving around her back as he gently eases her head down to his so he can kiss her softly, sensually. She’s right there with him until the kiss comes to an easy, effortless end, and then he sees that wicked gleam return to her deep blue gaze as she tightens herself around him.

A small hand lands on his shoulder, pushes insistently until he falls back onto the mattress obediently. It’s exciting and thrilling, but if she doesn’t get a move on…

“Get to it, woman,” he growls up at her. “You’re driving me crazy.”

She does. And though she is gentler and slower than he would be if their positions were reversed, it is still incredibly, incredibly good. It’s in the way she moves, he thinks, all of his attention locked on her. There’s something so very seductive about her as she sits astride him, completely unselfconscious, entirely confident in what she’s doing, and clearly revelling in every last moment of it.

He watches her, entranced by the motion of her body, thoroughly caught up in the heady rush of all the things she is doing to him, by the exquisite way she makes him feel, by the hot, slick fusion and the maddeningly sweet friction as they move together. Despite it all, though, he instinctively wants to grab hold of her, to cover her body with his, press her into the mattress and thrust into her, hard and fast, and it takes everything in him not to, to stay exactly where he is.

“ _Grace_ …” It’s a strangled, drawn-out moan, uttered in a moment of sheer desperation, and she quite clearly knows it, because she laughs and the sound is sweet and gentle as she leans forward over him, studying him far to calmly for his liking, her face filled with loving mischief as she finally, _finally_ increases her pace, uttering a low, growly litany of erotic words that make him groan with need and greed and thrust up in near-frantic counterpoint. Grace grins, Boyd growls, and then she swoops down, kissing him lightly, quickly before grazing her teeth over his lip.

“Jesus, woman,” he pants, his breath reduced to gasps now as that tantalising peak edges closer and closer. He can’t hold out much longer, not when he can feel her breasts brushing against the suddenly hypersensitive skin of his chest, not when she’s raking the fingers of one hand through his hair, over his shoulder and bicep. He reaches between her thighs, goes straight for the kill, and smirks in complete satisfaction when she howls in pleasure as he works her, pushes her.

It only lasts moments more and then she’s there, and it’s fucking glorious to watch as her back stiffens and she cries out, sobbing his name as she is consumed by the intense pleasure. A few last determined jerks of his hips beneath her, and then just as he’s there too a tremendous crash sounds from outside as the thunder booms closer than ever, echoing through the valley in conjunction with the blast of cold air that sweeps over his burning skin as the whipping breeze rushes into the room, making the curtains flap wildly around the window. Brilliant white lightening flares again, and for the briefest of seconds he can see her, wrapped in monochromatic light, a stunning portrait of colourless shades, and then nothing. The light vanishes, the candles having been snuffed out by the wind, and all that’s left is the ecstasy ripping through him and the heat and weight of her body as she tumbles down onto his chest, clutching him tightly in her arms.

When he stirs, his mind finally catching hold of the sound of her steadying breathing and swimming back into the present on the waves of the gentle rhythm, the wind has shifted, the breeze now wafting past the still open window instead of through it, barely stirring the heavy drapes that are still open to the elements. Boyd’s ears pick out the gentler sounds of the lessening rain as the grumble of thunder recedes, and he sighs in happiness as the heat of their entangled, exhausted bodies slowly cools as the oppressive muggy warmth in the air dissipates.

Grace hasn’t moved an inch. She’s still sprawled across his chest, clinging to him, her head buried in his neck, her hair tickling his nose as he rests his cheek against it. It’s a while before he thinks he can identify which of his limbs are exactly where, and how to control them again, but when he does he gathers her closer and rolls onto his side, keeping her tucked tightly into the curve of his body. She moans lightly in protest, and he snuggles her closer, kisses her temple with all the tranquil, sated tenderness he possesses.

He wonders if she is simply falling asleep, and then he feels the light, delicate fingers tracing ghostly patterns across his back. She’s not quite there yet, and that’s fine with him because neither is he. Not when he can hear the remnants of the storm as it moves on, its fading sounds still majestic and imposing, an awesome reminder of the way everything else pales into insignificance in the face of nature’s grand power.

And certainly not when he can lie quietly where he is for a while, cradling the woman he loves and appreciating the sensual warmth and contentment of the dying embers of their own passionate storm.

 


End file.
